


Framing

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Awkward Crush, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Inline with canon, Inspired by official art, M/M, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-18 05:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3557528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gokudera’s been carrying the camera around in his pocket most of the day, the weight of it feeling twice as much as it ought to be." Gokudera works himself frantic over taking a picture, and Yamamoto makes his worry unnecessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Framing

Gokudera’s been looking for an excuse all day.

He’s been carrying the camera around in his pocket most of the day, the weight of it feeling twice as much as it ought to be. He takes it out whenever there’s an opportunity, even a faint chance Yamamoto might be watching, might perk up with interest and materialize at Gokudera’s elbow like he sometimes does, but every time he tries Yamamoto is looking away, or down, or just turning away, and so far it’s all been for naught. There’s no particular reason it has to be today, no particular reason he needs the picture at all, but by the time the sun is high overhead it feels like a timer counting down, ratcheting Gokudera’s anxiety higher with every passing second, until he can’t think about anything else for wanting this particular thing.

It’s the first time he’s wanted Tsuna to leave. Now, of course, is precisely when the other boy takes to lingering around them, striking up a conversation with Yamamoto about sushi, of all things. Gokudera is left to fret in silence, turning the camera over and over in his pocket like it will somehow push his nerves aside instead of drawing them tighter under his skin.

It feels like an hour, when Kyoko finally calls something and pulls Tsuna leaping to his feet in his haste to answer her summons. In all truth it can’t have been more than a few minutes, but Gokudera’s itchy with anxiety, alternately desperate to speak and terrified of the possibility. He can feel Yamamoto’s eyes on him, the other’s consideration as heavy as a touch, but he doesn’t look over, doesn’t dare the eye contact he knows will break him one way or another.

“Gokudera?” Yamamoto asks, and that lack of honorific shouldn’t set Gokudera’s skin on fire but it does, it simmers through his blood with something that feels alarmingly like pleasure. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay,” Gokudera snaps, the aggression motivating him to look sideways, to fix Yamamoto’s friendly lack of suspicion with a glare. “Why wouldn’t I be okay, idiot?”

“Okay,” Yamamoto agrees, no trace of disbelief in his tone. “You’ve seemed kind of jumpy all day, is all.”

Gokudera looks away instead of answering, dodges the honesty in Yamamoto’s eyes and the casual intuition of his words at once. It’s too much to stand, right now, with his body as tight-wound with nerves as it is, and when he scrabbles for a subject change the words he’s been rehearsing fall off his lips before he can think.

“Can I take your picture?”

It sounds awful, strained around the awkward self-consciousness that is jittering Gokudera into restlessness. He’s flinching as the question cracks in his throat, moving to push up and walk away to cut off the topic before he has to hear Yamamoto ask him what is wrong with him, when the other’s “Sure!” cuts clear through all the weight of his inner monologue of regret.

He pauses, glances sideways through his hair just to make sure he didn’t hear incorrectly. Yamamoto is smiling at him, his head tilted to the side like he sometimes does when he looks at Gokudera too long, like he can’t quite remember how to keep his head upright, no trace of judgement or amusement on his features.

Gokudera can’t make any sense out of it. How can he look so calm, how can he be so unsuspicious, how could he  _not hear_  the awkward stress on Gokudera’s voice when he spoke? But Yamamoto’s expression isn’t wavering, isn’t flickering, and after a moment of silence he says, “Do you have a camera right now?” like there’s no big deal to the request.

Gokudera blinks, reaches into his pocket to fish it out. It feels lighter, now, so light it might just float away from the adrenaline-driven shake of his hands; he’s looking down at the camera, trying to steady his hands through sheer force of will, when Yamamoto asks, “Want me to take one of you too?” and a burst of inspiration hits Gokudera like he’s been shocked.

“I’m not going to let an idiot touch my camera,” he snaps. “I’ll take one of both of us.”

It feels painfully obvious to him, the words sticky with awareness of his actual goal. But “Okay!” Yamamoto chirps, and when Gokudera turns the camera around Yamamoto slides closer without him even saying anything, until his knee bumps against Gokudera’s where they’re sitting. Gokudera’s whole body flashes hot with the contact, the tremble jolting out to his fingers until he almost loses his grip on the camera.

“Careful,” he growls, and Yamamoto laughs, bright and easy and  _so_  close, Gokudera can feel the warmth of the other’s breath against the side of his neck.

“Sorry,” he says. “We both have to fit into the frame, right?”

Gokudera can’t protest rationally, doesn’t really want Yamamoto to move away, so he offers a hiss of nonspecific irritation and tries to focus on the camera instead of on the rhythm of Yamamoto’s breathing against his hair. He doesn’t have the steadiness to manage more than one attempt, has to hope to luck that he lined the shot up correctly when he presses the button. There’s a flicker, the faint click of the shutter closing to capture them as they are, close enough to touch with the heat of Yamamoto’s smile just over Gokudera’s shoulder.

“Aww, Gokudera,” Yamamoto says as Gokudera turns the camera off, stuffs it back into his pocket with more haste than elegance. “You weren’t smiling.”

“Fuck off,” Gokudera snaps without looking up. He doesn’t have to see to feel the concentrated attention of Yamamoto’s gaze on him, the other’s eyes fixed on the fall of hair protecting his expression from Yamamoto’s uncanny perceptiveness. “Who could smile with you invading their personal space?”

Yamamoto laughs, apparently oblivious to the insult in the words, and some of Gokudera’s nervous energy starts to fade, his breathing coming a little easier. He can feel calm coming back around him, or at least the closest to calm he can usually obtain, his goal achieved in spite of his nerves and without any major mishaps along the way.

Then there’s motion in the corner of his eye, Yamamoto shifting his weight, and when Gokudera looks up with reflexive quickness his hair brushes against fingertips, the movement of his head swinging the strands against Yamamoto’s almost-touch. The other is leaning in, his hand extended like he was reaching for Gokudera’s hair, or maybe to touch his fingers to the other’s cheek, and for a heartbeat Gokudera can’t move for the certainty that Yamamoto is about to kiss him. Yamamoto’s eyes are hopelessly soft, gentle and melting even before he blinks and his attention falls to Gokudera’s lips; Gokudera’s heart flutters fast, panic and excitement in equal parts rising into his blood, and he’s looking down too, he’s staring at Yamamoto’s lips falling open on a word or a breath or the anticipation of contact.

Then Gokudera takes a breath, the air sticking in his throat into the shape of a whimper, and Yamamoto blinks, and his eyes are back at Gokudera’s, and the moment is gone. His smile is slow, almost apologetic, and Gokudera wishes that he could decide if he feels more relieved or disappointed when the hand draws away from his hair and Yamamoto lets him shift away and back to a reasonable distance.

Gokudera doesn’t take any more pictures that day. In the end, all that he has is the one, framed surprisingly well, with his own scowl in the foreground and Yamamoto smiling bright with unfettered joy in the background. He doesn’t frame it, doesn’t want to have to explain it if someone were to see it, but the logic of secrecy doesn’t stop him fitting it into the pocket of his jeans every morning, pressed as close against his skin as he can manage.

It’s easier to smile with it, even if he doesn’t let himself think about why.


End file.
